Wyld Dreamers

by Pamela Holmes

  The accusations hurtle round her head. The image of the lonely calf in the barn and Shirley lying in the mortuary shed are terrifying pictures. Amy grips the sink, forces herself to remain naked in the icy bathroom. Tears stream down her face. Her teeth chatter with cold but guilt makes her shake, too. Staring back from the mirror, her eyes are bloody pits. She deserves punishment.

  ‘Amy, what the hell’s going on?’ Suddenly David is in the bathroom and he is flinging his arms around her, subsuming her in his warmth. ‘What are you doing, you crazy girl? Look, I’ve brought a hot water bottle for you. Let’s get some clothes on you and… ’

  ‘David,’ she wails, ‘it’s my mother, I’m feeling terrible, I wonder if it’s my fault.…’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling Ames. Hold up your arm…’

  ‘It could be, it could…’

  ‘Come on, let’s get you into bed,’ he says and bundling her into another jumper, drags socks up her frozen legs and half carries her into the bedroom.

  The voice is stilled. The shuddering of her bones gradually wanes. But just before she drops to sleep, she is conscious of one last whisper, one last hiss. That though she may mourn her mother, no more is she bound into someone else’s story of her life. Appalling to acknowledge, it jeers, but she cannot deny that there is a sliver, a tiny pulse somewhere deep-down in her being that is glad that she is free.

  It was raining when the vet turned up. ‘I’m used to it, don’t bother yourself,’ he said.

  But Amy insisted on joining him. In clothes more suitable for a scarecrow, she took him to the pen where Daisy was waiting.

  ‘She’s calm, is she? Give her some nuts. I need to establish out why her calf was stillborn. I’ll do a blood test, of course but I’ll examine her too.’

  The vet slipped on a thick plastic glove that covered his arm as far as his shoulder. ‘She may have had milk fever or brucellosis though she’s been inoculated so it’s unlikely.’

  He slipped his arm under Daisy’s tail and pushed into the cow so deep that his elbow disappeared and his shoulder pressed against her hindquarters.

  Amy winced.

  ‘Feels alright,’ the vet said twisting his arm to reach for another area in the cow’s vagina.

  Amy wished he would move more slowly though Daisy didn’t appear to mind.

  Withdrawing his arm, the vet said: ‘She’s delivered the afterbirth alright. You can start milking her for colostrum now.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The first milk that’s usually left for the calf to feed on. Thicker, yellower than regular milk. I’ll call you when the blood results are back. If nothing shows up, you can start drinking the milk. That’s what Mr Stratton bought her for, isn’t it? You know how to milk a cow I take it?’

  He snapped shut his bag and took off his apron, washed his hands in a nearby bucket. She wondered how clean they were.

  ‘I’d call the hunt today if I were you. They’ll come and take the calf away. It will feed the hounds for a day.’

  11

  Mrs Morle watches from her cottage window. Ever since that builder turned up, things have changed. That lazy lot, previously scarce until lunchtime, are now at the cottage by ten o’clock in the morning and willing, it seems, to take directions on digging trenches or laying pipes. Accompanied by not-infrequent laughter. Mrs Morle had not understood labouring to be fun.

  Bob, for he’d come across to the cottage to introduce himself and shake her hand (and his were clean, she noticed), spent the first month re-tiling the cottage roof; brought a lad to carry tiles and the flashing. Julian and the other boys he directed from the scaffolding. Helen, his wife or partner, one didn’t ask these days, got one of the chaps to pick out old mortar so she could re-point the brickwork. Nimble-fingered, Bob said of her. And she got that dreamy girl, Maggie was her name, to strip the paint off the window frames. No doubt Mr Stratton would be pleased that his cottage might be watertight in time for winter.

  The other girl, Amy, seemed to spend a lot of her time in the kitchen making the meals for them when she wasn’t working in the garden. She’d dug the whole plot over, mind, spread it with muck from an old dung heap in the back yard and planted broad bean seeds. Even cleared a bed for asparagus. Fancy food. Mrs Morle doubted it would grow.

  Seymour still employed Mrs Morle to clean each week. Good job too, the place needed it. Amy, with a book in one hand and secateurs in the other, seemed oblivious to dirt. She crawled among the fruit bushes snipping the branches. Asked Mrs Morle not to chuck out the bottles anymore; the girl was going to make country wine from the fruits, she said, and rosehip syrup for sore throats. Mrs Morle tried not to wrinkle her nose.

  Julian and his friends might be doing more work these days but it didn’t stop their parties. Sometimes when Mrs Morle woke in the night she could see lights in the house, even in the small hours, and when the wind was from a certain direction, she could hear music. How did they stay up so late and still get up in the mornings? Perhaps they didn’t need sleep like normal humans or did it have something to do with that man Gerald?

  He was there too often for her liking. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but she felt in her water he was untrustworthy.

  Gerald ignored her. Nothing new in that, many of Seymour’s friends had done the same over the years. Took it in her stride. City-types, self-important and selfish, they couldn’t see that anyone else mattered, certainly not the cleaning lady. But with Gerald it was more than that: he made her recoil. It wasn’t that he looked scruffy, which he did, it was his expressionless eyes.

  One time she’d come across him splayed across a sofa fast asleep, his leg sticking out from under a coat. She was tempted to lay a cushion over those line-scored cheeks, to press down on his pursed mouth. He was so still, she wondered hopefully if he was dead already. Unable to hear his breath, she flicked him with a duster. Not that she cared particularly but somehow it seemed necessary that his body should be taken out of the house as quickly as possible if he had gone. But his eyes snapped open and she flinched, shocked to realise just how disappointed she felt.

  Amy wakes with a jump. Her chest and neck are clammy, her heart flutters. A dream about her mother again.

  She pulls open the curtain a fraction. A glimmer of sunlight touches the slope where the grass has been flattened by rain. Cold air streams under the duvet, making her skin sting.

  She reaches for the towel she used last night to wipe herself after she and David had sex and notices with relief that it is streaked with blood. Although she is careful, even obsessive, David complains, about using the diaphragm every time they have sex, you can never be a hundred per cent confident of contraception. Peering down, she sees her nightdress is spotted red, too. It’s a welcome distraction to deal with her period. Already the feelings stirred up by her dream are fading; her mother speaking to her soundlessly.

  David rolls towards her and blows stale sleep breath into her face. She turns on to her side and stares out at the field now glowing in the light. He snuggles up to her, his erection pressing against her leg. ‘I want you again,’ he breathes into her hair.

  ‘I’ve got to milk Daisy,’ she whispers back.

  ‘Stay for a little while, Ames, you know you want to.’ He begins to pull up her nightdress.

  ‘I can’t, I’ve got to get up.’

  ‘Don’t be boring, Miss Amy Routine,’ he taunts. ‘Daisy can wait but I can’t.’

  Her rump is bare now and he strokes her buttocks, biting playfully on her neck.

  ‘My period’s started anyway.’

  David pushes her away. ‘You should have said,’ he says, and rolls over as she slips from the bed.

  Daisy is waiting patiently at the gate. She meanders along the path, following the sound of the cow nuts rattling in the bucket. She eats the nuts while she’s milked.

  Amy’s wrists and hands are strong now, and she’s come to love the rhythmic pull and squirt of the twice-daily task. Spreading her knee
s, she draws herself right up against the animal and rests her head on Daisy’s scented flank. With alternate hands, she squeezes the milk down the rubbery teats until they flop like flat balloons.

  Ten minutes later, the bucket brims with frothy creamy milk. Only a few weeks ago she was not so competent. One day Daisy kicked over the pail and Amy shouted in exasperation as the hard-won liquid trickled into puddles. The frightened cow hid at the end of the muddy yard as Amy found she was crying over the spilt milk.

  But she couldn’t help it. Ever since Shirley died, she starts crying at the oddest time and without warning. The lyrics of a song, a dead mouse that Pepper leaves in the boot room, stones that sparkle in a steam brook, she can’t predict what will set her off. David finds it exasperating.

  Amy heaves the pail on to the kitchen table.

  ‘Morning, milkmaid.’ Julian eating cereal looks like Daisy does when she’s chewing the cud. ‘What the hell are we going to do with all this milk?’

  Simon is putting bread between the hot plate and hood of the Aga. ‘Do you want a p-p-piece of t-t-toast, Amy?’

  Upstairs a door slams. ‘Yeah, thanks. Well, I’ll give some of the milk to Mrs Morle and Lynn and then…’

  ‘That’ll get you in her good books,’ Julian teases.

  ‘...and I’m going make soft cheese with herbs from the garden.’ Amy pulls a recipe book off the dresser shelf and starts to flick through the pages.

  ‘I didn’t know we had herbs here. How very rustic. Pour us a cup of tea, will you, S-S-S-imon?’

  ‘Yes, there’s thyme and sage and mint. Found them when I dug over the ground. Here’s a recipe. It says… “curdle the milk with lemon juice or vinegar. Once it’s set, hang the curds in a muslin cloth over a bowl overnight and drip out the whey….flavour the curds, sweet or savoury.” That’s what I’ll do then.’

  ‘It sounds disgusting. Whatever it is you’re making with rotten milk, I’m not eating it.’ David comes into the kitchen. He’s trying to sound cheerful but she can tell he’s irritated. ‘Gerald’s been sick in the bath, Julian. I’ve put him on your bed to recover and told him to clear it up.’ He pours himself some tea.

  ‘I think it s-s-sounds delicious, your herby ch-ch-cheese, Amy.’ Simon watches her drop vinegar into a pan of milk. ‘I’ll eat it even if D-D-David won’t. You’re such a great c-c-cook.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiles up at him.

  Half an hour later the kitchen is quiet. Amy arranges the clean bowls and tea cups on the dresser. She sweeps the floor of crumbs and the mud that’s fallen from dirty boots; it does not, apparently, occur to anyone to remove their wellies before entering the house. Why does she feel it would be bossy to ask them?

  In a large bowl, she sprinkles yeast on to warm milk that’s sweetened with honey. She watches as the tiny granules bubble and foam into life, releasing the aroma she’s come to crave. Stirring in wholemeal flour makes the mixture turn ropey. Dusting her hands, she kneads the swollen dough until it’s as tacky as chewing gum. Making two loaf shapes, she punches them down in the pans and covers them with a cloth to ‘prove’. The language of bread makes her happy.

  She remembers the pleasure her mother took in household tasks and how she, Amy, would deride her for it. Now she too appreciates the comfort that domesticity can bring. How could she have been so unkind as to mock her mother about something she enjoyed? Emotions clog her throat like uncooked dough.

  ‘Hallo.’ Gerald is leaning against the kitchen door, dishevelled but infuriatingly he looks composed. ‘Good day. Are you alright?’

  ‘You made me jump. Morning, Gerald, I’m just a little… it’s nothing.’ She resents being caught in a private moment.

  ‘Is there any tea?’ He looks around hopefully.

  She resists the urge to fetch him a cup. ‘Kettle’s on.’ Is her nose red from crying?

  Gerald pours boiling water into a cup, then sloshes milk on the counter. ‘Whatever it is that’s getting you down, forget it, that’s the way.’

  As he cuts a slice off one of her loaves, he sings: ‘I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden…’

  Spreading butter and jam thickly on to the bread, he goes into the sitting room, slamming the door. Amy puts the loaf back in the bread bin and sweeps the crumbs off the counter.

  Maggie is squatting against the back wall of Bramble cottage. She’s meant to be scraping paint off the window frames. But surely it’s important to start only when you’re ready? Her hair needs plaiting or it’ll get full of dust.

  It’s getting colder each day. At least the checked shirt and dungarees she found in the airing cupboard keep her warm and, cinched in with a belt at the waist, makes her look like a proper farm girl. Digging into her pocket, she finds her tobacco and rolls a breakfast cigarette. Helen’s out the front: Maggie can hear her calling to Bob, so she won’t notice this slow start. Helen’s amazing, she knows so much about building. Bob confers with her on most decisions. She’s strong, too, lifting bags of cement just like the men. But has she forgotten how important it is to pace the day?

  Maggie is enjoying life here. She’s not a country girl, not like Amy, who delights in having dirt under her fingers nails. But living in this group, practically a commune really, is a hoot. If it means you have to scrape paint, then so be it.

  There’s always new people staying, someone Seymour has suggested should visit or Julian’s friends, someone who’s been thrown out of a squat or been kicked off their pitch selling tie-dyed clothes in Portobello Road market. Sometimes people call to say they’re coming but more often than not they just turn up unannounced, saying they’ll hang around for a day or two. They always end up staying longer. Usually because of the Wyld Farm jinx.

  Cars which worked perfectly well on arrival succumb to the gremlin and die. Like Steve, the music journalist, with his shiny bomber jacket, tales of record company parties and passion for glam rock, the ‘next big thing’, he says. It took Julian days to fix his flash car. Marianne who wanted to gather sheep dung for her collage, had to abandon her camper van and take the train home, dragging her sack of manure behind her. And Erica who arrived with her toddler Adrian (named after the Mersey poet apparently) and insisted on sleeping in a yurt in the garden. She would only eat raw food. Maggie couldn’t remember how she finally got away. Maggie sighs. It has to be said there is a shred of guilt that she didn’t start the nursing course. It’s never nice when your mother bursts into tears on the phone. But you have to make your own decisions about life and she doesn’t want to be a nurse anymore. Staying here with everyone else feels right. Who knows? Take life as it comes. Julian and David were talking last night about staying on Wyld Farm for a year or two. Back to the land, get city kids to come and run a holiday scheme, teach them about farming…

  That’s when Maggie remembers the chickens. It’s her job to shut them into the hen house every night.

  ‘Shit!’ She scrambles to her feet. ‘Got to let the chickens out, be back in a bit!’ she shouts to anyone who may be listening.

  She heads for the orchard, grateful to escape the tedium of work though she hasn’t actually done any yet.

  ‘I feel like a jailer when I have to shut the hens up in that tiny house,’ she’d complained last night at supper.

  Everyone’s chairs were rammed up against the Aga; they were too fagged to make a fire. Someone passed her a joint.

  ‘At least they’ve got their b-b-boyfriend, the big c-c-cock, with them. I’m sure they don’t m-m-mind,’ Simon joked.

  Was he flirting with her? She hoped so. They’d slept together several times since she’d been here but in the morning he would behave as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Maggie and the c-c-cock keep the hens safe from the b-b-big bad f-f-foxes!’

  She adored Simon’s stammer. When he stuck on a word, his eyes would fix hers. Resisting the impulse to say the word for him, she would gaze at him mouthing it.

  ‘I’m not sure there are foxes round here. I�
��ve never seen one,’ she replied.

  ‘T-t-tell that to the hunt!’

  ‘I want the hens to be free, not locked up in the dark.’

  ‘You think that if you b-b-believe something hard enough that it w-w-won’t happen. That’s k-k-kooky.’

  ‘You’re teasing me,’ she pouted. His grin made her lustful.

  Maggie strolls past the farmhouse kitchen window and waves.

  Amy grimaces in reply; she’s struggling with the mangle on the washing machine, wringing water out of a bedsheet. Such an old-fashioned contraption, there’s no twin-tub here.

  Maggie heads through the gate into the orchard. The fruit trees are bare of leaves now. She remembers seeing them for the first time when the boughs were weighed down with fruit.

  It’s then that she sees it – the hen house – flipped over on its side. Strewn across the grass, the headless bodies and bloody entrails of the chickens. Hand clamped on mouth, Maggie runs howling back to the farmhouse.

  12

  With each station passing, the world looks more cluttered and less colourful. Shops and houses, roads packed with nose-to-tail cars, people everywhere and the only animals are dogs tethered to their owners. Amy already misses Wyld Farm and she only left an hour ago. She wonders vaguely if she is silly to miss a cow. Will Simon remember to milk Daisy?

  Amy’s teeth feel gritty. Her headache, caused in part by last night’s party but also the thought of seeing her father again, is thumping in time to the train. The prospect of five whole days alone with him is not appealing.

  Amy slips off her clogs and curls her feet up on the seat. Where will they open their presents? Sitting on her parents’ bed on Christmas morning without her mother will be weird.